


Wood and Wire

by Ordinarily



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: A/B/O, Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alpha Peter Parker, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Best Friends, Dry Humping, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Omega Reader, Porn With Plot, Rutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 02:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15698106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinarily/pseuds/Ordinarily
Summary: Clothespins are the quickest fix for needing to see your best friend while they're in heat.**Alpha/Beta/Omega AU





	Wood and Wire

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of slow

Peter had this kind of infuriating habit of being the literal sweetest person on earth.

Heats pretty much sucked for anyone who wasn’t mated and he knew that just as well as the next person. So, when he showed up at her door, after weeks of not seeing each other, a clothespin over his nose and the goofiest grin on his dumb face, Y/N almost cried. 

“Oh—oh my god, do you not want to see me? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—” 

His voice, nasally and concerned, a near oxymoron, had her knees folding, laughter singing from her throat. “You’re my favourite person in this entire world, Pete.”

And that’s where it started, a handful of years ago. Heats and ruts spent together, so long as they didn’t inhale the other’s scent. Their cycles tended to sync up a lot, a pattern they tried not to dwell on out of fear of what it could mean. And sometimes May had a problem with it and sometimes her parents did too, because she was still a girl and he was still a boy and they were both fairly straight, so much as they were concerned. So, doors stayed opened and they played video games and watched movies and slept over sometimes, usually avoiding physical contact, and things were okay. It was enough to be in close quarters with someone, a little bit of the edge taken off and if it was ever too much, they’d try again tomorrow.  

It stemmed from Peter not being able to take being away from her for so long. At the beginning of her heats, probably around twelve or thirteen, it was just so _lonely_. For as long as he remembered, they’d only ever had each other, and when she stopped showing up at school for days at a time—sometimes weeks—Peter found himself in a sort of depressive state. Middle school was hard enough without having to get through it by yourself. 

And then in freshman year, his ruts kicked in and he’d never felt like that in his entire life. She had always been his best friend, that’s all she’d been since the first day of kindergarten and yet suddenly she was a girl and—holy _shit_  Y/N’s a girl.  

On bad days, they spent it locked up in their rooms, embarrassed and isolated, aching for  _something_ and rejecting anything that wasn’t some kind of suppressant or some kind of indulgent. On good days, they skipped class and hung out somewhere secluded.

And that’s exactly where they found themselves now, a Tuesday in senior year, back at her place, apartment empty, door locked and window shut, a clothespin over Peter’s nose, zapping zombies into other dimensions and fighting for crown points. He kind of did her a solid; playing hooky with her. It was her own problem, really, and yeah, she’d done it for him—it was their thing, a pact they never broke—but they had a Cal exam next week and extra notes were being given. He should’ve stayed... especially because she felt like she was going to have to kick him out soon.

For as much of the nerd role he played, Peter had a hell of a deceiving body. All lean muscle and broad biceps, abs she knew hid under that sweater vest of his— _God, just take it off already._ He cheered, pearly whites on full display as he smiled, saying something she was too gone to decipher. She imagined those teeth sinking into her skin at the base of her throat, underneath her jaw, the nape of her neck... And then he turned to her, that smile morphing into a frown, then going slack in concern, eyebrows creasing, and all she could hear was the sound of her name tumbling from his lips. Lips she marvelled at, wondering how they would feel against her own, leaving kisses along her collar bones, nipping at her ear, lapping at—

She swallowed, mouth dry and throat burning, air passing too quickly and not quickly enough through her nasal cavity. 

She thought she heard him ask if he should go but then he reached out to touch her, fingers a searing burn against her forearm causing her to jolt.

“Is it… is it hot in here?” she tried, thinking it came out sounding more like a gasp than a sentence. Her thighs were beginning to feel slick, she could nearly smell her own arousal, and to make matters that much worse _his hand still hadn’t left her arm._ All she could focus on was him, Peter and his wavy hair and kind eyes and big heart. Peter and his stupid science tees and precocious intelligence and way of speaking that never failed to make her heart squeeze; slow syllables and quick, slurred pronunciation, rasping phonetics at the back of his throat. 

She covered her mouth, muffling a moan and drowning in his gaze. 

His eyes widened. “Okay, okay I should go.”

But Peter was not raised by brutes and there was no way he was just leaving her there on the floor, vulnerable and… panting? So there was only a moment of hesitation before he slipped his arms under her, squeaking when she pushed her nose into his neck, and carried her to the bed. And it was as he let her fall to the mattress, dipping down because she was clinging to him so tight he had to disentangle himself from her, that she accidentally hit him. Right in the face—in the nose actually, sending his clothespin tumbling to the bedspread. He stared at it in bewilderment, the contrast between rudimentary wood and the soft cotton fabric, wrinkling to accompany the intrusion. He tried— _goddamn, did he try—_ to hold his breath.

“Holy shit,” he croaked, recoiling and covering his nose, pupils dilating rapidly as he met her eyes. “I didn’t…” He stumbled back, bracing himself against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut. Even after all the years they’d spent dancing this routine, he didn’t think he’d ever actually really inhaled her scent. Honestly, he was pretty proud he’d managed this long, though a part of him he liked to ignore, keep under chains and manacles, noted how much of a shame it was. “You smell so— _ungh.”_

“Peter,” she tried, urgent and heady, reaching out to grasp his arm and guide him to her door. “You need to go, seriously, I’m about to lose it.” 

He shook his head, staggering closer to her and pinching his nose. “I can’t—can’t leave you like—”

“Fight it,” she pleaded, gulping air into her lungs, refusing to give in. “Whatever instinct…” His mouth dropped open in the most procuring way and she lost focus, breathing through her nose on accident. “I can smell you…” Light musk and some kind of wooded mountain top—pine and fresh air—and just like that, her demeanour did a one-eighty. She was getting up, inching closer to him, arms hugging her middle and legs pressing together. “I’m giving you five seconds to do _something_ or else I will.” 

He stalked over to her, murmuring apologies over and over again as he stood tall above her, and lent down to press his face into her neck, inhaling. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”  

And then his lips were meeting the flesh there, dragging up and down, tasting whatever he could. She moaned, long and drawn out and covered her mouth to stifle anything else that wanted to slip out, head lulling back. He stilled, unsure if he should continue, even with the newly granted access. He wanted to stay—wanted to be there for her in a way he knew he could—but some latent part of his conscience advised him against it. He brought his lips to the skin under her ear, kissing and nibbling and she squirmed, a gasp lodged in her throat. If she moaned again he was pretty sure he’d break. 

“You,” she began, voice wrecked, “you need to make a decision.” 

He stepped away, searching her face and clenched his jaw, fighting with himself. And then he shut his eyes, appearing as though he was in physical pain, and what with the bulge in his jeans she assumed he was. He inhaled audibly and coughed, almost like he’d forgotten her fragrance was suffocating the room and steadied himself, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek before walking out and shutting the door behind him. 

She sighed, flopping down on her mattress and shedding her clothes, lying there, drenched and empty and sweaty. There was a vibrator in the bottom drawer of her nightstand and she was about to reach for it, but hesitated at the thought that nothing, _nothing_ was going to fix this. Except maybe Peter, but she’d probably scared him off and now they had a whole lot of friendship to fix. 

_He’d kissed her neck._

She still felt his lips there, warm and tingly and shooting electric currents up and down her spine. And if he would have just pressed his teeth there, broken the skin and claimed her... She yanked open the drawer with the full knowledge that any attempts at relief were futile, and pressed said relief to her throbbing anyway. 

And then her phone buzzed and she barely registered it, considering the other buzzing at the lower half of her body. She felt for the device with her unoccupied hand, glancing at the caller ID and without even thinking, answered it.  

“I think you sent me into a rut,” he panted over the phone.

“Where are you?”

“My apartment is like a flight of stairs up from yours, what do you mean?”

And then he groaned softly and she imagined him sprawled out on his bed, palm working himself.  

“I just— _shit_ —seems like you got there pretty fast.” 

“Yeah well... I had something to take care of.”

“Fuck, don’t say that,” she whispered, gasping over the speaker. 

Peter let his head fall back, needy and desperate and her voice, _god, her voice_.  

“Why—why'd you call? This s'a bad idea…”

“I needed...” he mumbled, letting out a shallow exhale, “I needed to hear you.” 

“I needed a lot more.”

“Don’t,” he warned. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I can’t... think straight.” And then she moaned, right there in his ear, a whine that made him twitch in his hand.

“Are you…”

“What do you think?” 

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Not like it helps...” she strained, pressing the phone closer to her ear.  

“I know, Y/N.”

A beat passed and she figured she should ask, even though he'd pretty much spelled it out for her. “Are you?”

There was a moment of hesitancy before a breathless, “Yeah.”

“God, Pete, what are we doing?” 

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t... I don’t know.” And then her breathing picked up and she made more sounds, more of those whines, high-pitched and low, voice cracking and growing louder, before stopping all together and then, quiet enough to send him over the edge: “ _Ah! Peter…”_

They stayed like that for a while, basking in awkward afterglow and feeling cold after the spike in body heat.

“…good?” His voice was surprisingly soft. 

“Not for another six rounds,” she managed, shaking her head at the ceiling. 

And then he laughed, a wheezy sort of chuckle, low and sweet. “...I’m hard again.” 

“Join the club,” she offered flatly, rolling on her stomach and burying her face in her pillow. “I hate this.”

“Come on, we’ve spent heats together before.” 

“You don’t think this is different now?” A beat passed before she propped herself up. “I knew… I knew what you smelled like but…” 

“Stop,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” 

He wanted to tell her this wasn’t anything, that it was just lust and it would be over soon. That it hadn’t been a long time coming, that every brush of skin-to-skin contact didn’t make him tingle all over—rut or otherwise. That she didn’t make him giddy, didn’t push him to want to be better. 

But he couldn’t, couldn’t tell her any of that. Instead he told her he was coming over. 

“Peter,” she warned. “That’s not a good idea.”  

“But I have to—“

“Hey Y/N, the school called. How are you holding up, baby?” Her heart dropped in her chest and she scrambled to find discarded clothes, ignoring the sticky mess and asking Peter if he could hold on a sec through gritted teeth. 

She yanked open her door, greeted by her mother’s sympathetic smile. Mom pressed a kiss to her forehead, pushing sweaty hair away from her face and making her squirm, feelings of shame pricking her cheeks. “I’m okay,” she managed, trying to keep from fidgeting.  

“We can get you something,” she proposed graciously, handing her daughter a tiny bottle of pills for the meantime.  

They were feeble suppressants, would do about as much as a cold glass of water for a headache, but she thanked her anyway, gulping two down and chugging the rest of a three-day-old water bottle she’d forgotten to throw out. “Sure, that’d be great.” 

“Did Pete skip school with you again?” 

“No, 'course not. We’ve got that huge test coming up. I told him to stay.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” she breathed and for the first time, felt like she was telling an ounce of truth, “I don’t know if I could handle being around him, honestly.” 

When she met her eyes, her mother smirked knowingly, a hint of mirth behind her expression. “May and I did always say...” 

“I know, I know, and you’ve embarrassed us enough over it.”

“...for as much as we try to keep you apart...” 

“Yes. Mom.” They were meant to be together, the adults could just tell. She’d heard it about a hundred times. But as far as she was concerned, the friendship wasn’t worth risking, even if there _was_ something there. 

Her mother laughed, haughty but kind nonetheless. “You remind me of me.” And then there was a knock at the front door and her daughter flinched enough for her to take notice. “You’re jumpy today,” she remarked, striding over to their front door, heels clicking. 

Peter stood in the doorway, greeting the woman. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards and Y/N often struggled trying to live up to a predisposed mould. Her parents had been high school sweethearts; the wry daredevil with the high grades and the cheerleading soccer player with a drive so passionate it’d give you whiplash. They were a power couple if she had ever known one—betas through and through, whose offspring somehow ended up omega—and she couldn’t have felt further from them. Some days she was pretty sure the doctors accidentally swapped babies in the nursery and she belonged to some lesser perfect family, where she’d fit in her flawed realism. 

The longer they spoke, the more worried she grew. _He was definitely going to slip up, he was definitely going to slip up, he was definitely—_   

His eyes scanned the room, finally meeting her widened ones. She gave him a face of panicked urgency, swiping her throat with her fingers in a gesture she hoped would convey ' _abort mission!'_  and shook her head at him vehemently. 

_You can’t be here._

_You need to leave_. 

But Peter smiled his gentleman grin, the one he gave to teachers and authority, if ever he needed to reassure someone of his courteousness or intellect, and nodded politely at whatever her mother was saying. 

And her mother, of all the times to go against her daughter, _let. Peter. In_.

Y/N stared at her in disbelief and betrayal as they both turned to her. Her mom with her winking wits and suggestive eyebrow raise and Pete in his characteristic innocence, hands stuffed in his pockets and stupid fucking science pun tee and curling hair and deep, brown eyes.  

“Oh,” her mother remembered, pulling open a drawer in the kitchen and reaching for a clothespin to offer him. “You might need this.” 

“Oh, thanks,” he responded smoothly, no trace of divulgence in his reaction. “Hadn’t even picked up on it.”

_This boy_. 

This boy could lie straight through his teeth with not an ounce of remorse and fool her own _mother_ into thinking he’d come over to go over the notes she’d missed. He’d brought books and everything.

She sent her parent one last irritated glare—one the woman shrugged and offered a smile at—as he followed her into her room. The door stayed open, obviously, and for a while, they genuinely went over homework, material that would be on the final and that they’d had issues with in class. 

“I got that, too.”

“Yeah, I ran the numbers five times.”

They both agreed the textbook was wrong on that one.  

She wondered just what his goal was here, his facade could have fooled _her_ if they hadn’t been friends for so long. She could still smell lingering aftereffects on him, but he’d done a good job at covering his trail. 

Stupid clever spider-boy.

It kind of almost made her believe he really did want to study. 

Almost.

Eventually, her mother poked her head back in to announce she was going out for a bit, meeting her husband at work and then heading out to get Y/N’s… prescription. Her gaze flitted between the two teens and she shot her daughter one more of those meaningful smirks before the sound of heels against the wooden floor carried off into the hall.

Perks of having a young mother, she thought—leniency and all that—but they were, in fact, not perks because she was sure Peter was picking up on the privy connotations behind their silent exchanges. 

The second the front door shut and the lock clicked, he ripped off the clothespin, knocking over books and loose papers as he stood up to meet her where she’d been hunching over his seated form, and slammed his mouth against hers. “I thought she’d never go,” he mumbled in between kisses.  

“We can’t. Peter, we can’t.” But she kept kissing him because _holy shit_ he felt so good and smelled so good and  _was_ so good. 

“The kind of self restraint...” he muttered. And then they were against the edge of her bed and he was towering over her, hands gripping at her head and neck and shoulders and back and tangling in her hair, pulling lightly. “She practically gave us permission,” he sighed and finally, reluctantly forced himself to move back, hanging his head in anticipation to her scolding of his rash behaviour. His voice was hushed. “I… Say you want me to leave and I will.”

She let out a breath, frustrated with herself. “Look, how far do you want to go? I’m... I’m gonna say things I don’t mean.” 

“Things like you’re not sure if you can handle being around me? And things like I _didn’t_ skip school again?”

She peered at him, eyes wide.  

“Think you forgot to hang up,” he whispered, moving to nuzzle her neck with his nose. And then he kissed her there because her _scent, Christ_ , he didn’t have the strength.  

He drew more sounds from her as she struggled to think rationally. “Yeah…” she said quietly. “Things like…” And then she regained her footing, pushing him away a little. “No. No, not things like that. I mean… maybe, but... I wasn’t lying about the first thing. I _can't_  handle being around you. Not without losing it.” 

“And what the hell do you think I’m doing Y/N! Do I look _composed_ to you?”

He didn’t. Sure, he’d combed his hair back for whatever false presentation he had put on. But now he looked disheveled, swelling lips and wrinkled shirt from where she’d been gripping, joggers in place of his usual khakis and sweater vest forgotten altogether. He was breathing hard and his eyes were dark and she was pretty sure there was a small bump at front of those sweats. “Is this... is this just heat? Because I don’t think I can do just heat.”

“I’m not going to knot you.”

“I’ll beg you to.”

“I know.”

She kissed him again, full on the mouth, and he inhaled deeply through his nose. They crashed on her mattress, not even bothering to properly position themselves because the odor in the room was absolutely intoxicating and it... did things. Made her want to grind herself against him and tangle her fingers in his hair. Made him want to leave patterns along her neck and shoulders and chest, and touch wherever she’d let him.

He cradled her head in his hands, bracing his arms against the bed and writhing because their hips weren’t even perfectly aligned but she was bucking against him. 

“It’s biology,” she whispered.

He didn’t even falter. 

She repeated herself. “It's ingrained in us.”

“So?” he whispered, licking a stripe at the base of her neck and eliciting a moan from her. “Don’t you...” He shifted finally, sitting higher and dragging her up to her pillows, gripping her leg. “Don’t you want… Aren’t you tired of the aches?”

“Yes, but,” she nearly growled, grasping his shoulders in frustration. “I can’t, I need you… I need you to tell me that this thing, whatever it is, this thing between us isn’t one-sided.”

That got him to stop. He pulled away enough to meet her glazed eyes. Then he shook his head, slow at first and then more surely. “I didn’t think—I never… And I didn’t want to take the risk, I mean we’ve been friends for so long…”

“Pete,” she whispered in warning, stifling gravelling noises through clenched teeth. 

“It’s not. It could never be one-sided. You’re—“

She reached up to smash their lips together again, drowning her whimper, and the mushy words died in his throat. It was the impatience in her actions that prompted him to decide in that moment he’d take her care into his own hands.

“I’ve got you, Y/N,” he cooed, gently moving away to place light kisses along her collarbones as she struggled to get her top off. 

“So... hot,” she panted, as he helped her out of the warmer layers. She grabbed for her panties but he stopped her with a light hand over hers.  

“I know. I’m gonna help you, okay?” 

Truthfully, Peter didn’t really know what he was doing. He was kind of nervous actually, but there was this primal instinct somewhere within him, a nagging pull that made him remember her words about biology. 

It was getting pretty hot for him too, so he stripped to his boxers and finally moved against her, because he wasn’t really sure what else to do. And it seemed to help. She whimpered, matching his rhythm and breathing him in. It was an easy pace, slow and sensual and enough to drive both of them crazy. But they were building up that tight coiling feeling so they chased after it, canting their hips and pressing harder. He bent one of her legs, holding her thigh and keeping it there so he could get as close as a clothing barrier would allow, hitting what he hoped were the right places. His head dropped to the crook of her neck where he sniffed—a kind of vanilla, jasmine blend, he couldn’t pinpoint it, exactly, but it made him enamoured and drowsy, drunk off her. Her forehead pressed to his shoulder, burning wherever their skin touched, little Y/N noises slipping from her lips.  

He could feel her throbbing, knew at the back of his mind this wouldn’t be enough, but prayed it’d suffice for the time being. They had things to talk about, topics that were not to be discussed through titillation. She grew silent, just like she had over the phone, and he knew. Again, she murmured his name real quiet like, so coy and small that he couldn’t… he was done for. 

He blinked, sitting up to examine her, making sure she was okay. She smiled at him, tired and sweet and his heart melted.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“Taking control.”

He smiled shyly, dipping his head so she wouldn’t see him blush. “It’s kind of in the profile.”

He flipped onto the bed beside her to catch his breath. “Thank you for spending heats with me.”

He chuckled, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Thanks for spending ruts with me.”

***

When she awoke again, their hands were still linked and she found the room kind of cold. She shifted, pulling blankets up and over the both of them. Peter’s hair got unruly when he didn’t comb it out properly and she understood with striking realization that this was his sex hair. 

Well. She’d never be able to look at that the same again. For a little while longer, she let herself watch him sleep, slow breaths heaved from that too well-chiseled chest—damn superhero gig—and parted lips. She flushed, tossing and forcing herself to turn away. If this continued, any progress made would regress a tenfold. 

This could last _days_. Weeks on odd occasions. 

From behind her, she heard his breathing shift, heard the mattress springs, and felt him move, only to throw his arm over her waist, dragging her so close their bodies were touching again.

She felt like she’d been lit on fire. 

“How long’s it been?”

He shuffled a little, before, “Twenty-five minutes.” 

“Shit,” she whimpered, curling in on herself. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this horny in my life.” 

“We made it worse!” she cried, arousal pooling in the pit of her stomach and perspiration already collecting at the nape of her neck.

He moved over her as she covered her face with her hands and tugged at her wrists gently. “Come on, Y/N, we’ll figure it out.” 

She looked at him with an expression that nearly transferred her thoughts. A sort of, _yeah, you know_ exactly _how we’re going to figure this out._ As he searched for answers in her eyes to questions he wasn’t sure he’d asked, she shook her head lightly. “You’re the only person who makes me like this. Heats are bad enough without you in the mix. You… god, I want you.”

He gaped at her words, struggling to keep the blood flow circulating to his brain, lest he say something astonishingly stupid. “I’m sweating.”

There it was. Astonishingly stupid. 

“Should I say the pickup line, or?”

He laughed, sinking back down to the mattress and twisting his hips in hopes of taking the edge off a little. But then he was on his stomach and he realized that was much worse. He buried his face in a pillow struggling to breathe evenly and keep his body still. “I don’t know how the fuck you did it, but you managed to sync up our cycles again. I wasn’t due for a rut in a while.” Even over the pillow, she heard him swallow. “You know I dream about you a lot?” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He peeked at her from the corner of his eye. “They’re always… obscene.”

She shuddered; the room too warm and the atmosphere too heavy.  

She apologized as she sat on top of him and ran her hands over his back. He sighed as she kneaded at sore muscles, the act intimate enough to send him stirring. But she wasn’t letting up. This was a distraction from the slick of her thighs and Peter could use the massage; long nights sitting awake at his desk chair, hunched over math problems, and restless fights with the common thief had him taut and stiff. He white-knuckled the pillow, doing his best to smother groans. (He was pretty sure this had happened in one of those dreams he mentioned). Eventually, he couldn’t handle any more and turned to face her. She ground against him almost immediately, murmuring more streams of apologies.  

“Stop,” he said gruffly. “You don’t have to be sorry about anything.” 

“Fuckin’ alpha,” she whispered before meeting his mouth again.  

Their kisses were hot and fiery, passionate and deep, nothing like the kind of kisser she imagined Peter would be. Nothing like the kind of friendship they had. And it was this line of thought that got her to beg. Even in the act, even while she moaned and ran her hands through his hair, all she could think about was how this wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, not until they sealed the deal but she wasn’t allowed to think like that. If they really wanted to, they could, and that was more enthralling than it was permitted to be. 

They were best friends and had admitted to a crush at most, though there was an underlying nuance that it was a whole lot more than that. She clenched on nothing, feeling hollow and unsatisfied no matter how many times she came. 

And so her tone grew desperate. She whimpered in his ears, chanted his name, asked for things she knew he wouldn’t deliver. It wasn’t fair of her, testing his self-control like that, but she couldn’t help it.

She wanted to see him _break_.  

“Knot me. Peter, please. I need you. Pete, please.” His head hit her headboard as he bucked against her, giving her access to his neck. “Fuck, Peter. _Knot me_.”

He whispered her name in a sort of plead, a request to stop because he couldn’t stand any more of her words, though she’d understood that by the new wet spot at his crotch.

When he looked at her, his eyes were still dark and dilated—watching your crush get off on you could do that to a person—and he reached between them to stroke her. Over the cotton was enough to sent her reeling but when he moved the fabric to the side, glancing between his movements and her face, she had to heave breaths. 

Just the _thought_ of him touching her like that was enough push her over the edge, let alone actually feeling him as he explored his way around, testing the waters, pressing and rubbing and curling. It had her completely wrecked and she gasped in his ear, fingers digging into his shoulders. He held onto her with firm, strong hands and gently coaxed her into a release that didn’t match his relentless pace.  

He trailed openmouthed kisses along her chest, daring a little further beneath her bra, before removing it completely. 

When she came down from her high she stared at the boy in front of her. The same one she’d practically grown up with—the one she’d hid behind her mom’s legs to shy away from on the first day of school. And later, when he moved into her apartment complex, she was excited they were neighbours but he was sad and distraught and there was too much weight on too young of a boy’s shoulders. And then when puberty kicked in, he didn’t really have time to dwell on that, being that he’d suffered through yet another loss and had to look after May because she was all he had left, really.

Often, he’d break down unexpectedly because things were too much and he didn’t have the means to cope with it, not when it felt like his life was always one twig snap way from total catastrophe. But then Spidey came along and he was new and fun and something else to focus on, a breather for his mental complex, as ironic as it was—nearly getting killed and all.  

But this boy in front of her wasn’t any of those Peters and he was all of them all at once. He looked different and yet entirely the same and all she wanted to do was love him. 

“Too much?” he asked, quiet and unsure, and her heart fell to pieces. 

Her eyes watered as she shook her head, chest swelling. “Never.”  

She remembered the words echoed one night, junior year, when he felt like the world was going to collapse, turn to ash through his very fingers and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. But he’d been trying to hold up his own, bottle it down and pretend it wasn’t there. He didn’t want to bother anyone, especially not her. 

But that night, she found him trembling in his sleeping bag, huddled in on himself and clutching his pillow, so she sat him up and hugged him back together for what felt like—and probably was—hours. “What is it? Please talk to me,” she’d implored.

“Am I too much for you?”

“Are you—what?”

“Do I drag you down into my problems?”

He’d been through so much and she’d been there every step of the way, he couldn’t help feeling like he was unloading his years of emotional baggage on her.  

She peered at him incredulously. “Yes, Peter, all you do is complain and I’m sick of hearing about your emotional turmoil. Also, I hate you.” His head snapped up to meet her gaze, wide-eyed and worried until she offered him a sarcastic smile and he visibly relaxed. “Come on, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let you drag me into your problems? I’m here for you. Always. Okay?”

He smiled and nodded, and cried again, mouthing off a story she knew by heart, one that didn’t make her heart ache any less, no matter how many times she heard it. 

And now he was in front of her, in the aftershock of climax, uttering those same deprecating words. She kissed him, delicate little pecks scattered across his cheeks and nose and lips. 

No, Peter Parker, you could never be too much. 

***

“Let me sleep over,” he whispered through the phone that night.  

A pill bottle sat on her desk, but she couldn’t bring herself to take any. The damage had been done, it was naive to think a suppressant would fix anything. Plus, she’d gotten Peter into this mess in the first place; it seemed unfair not to ride out her side of the quandary. She felt like she should do _something_ though, so she reached for a different bottle in her nightstand, and swallowed a contraceptive, secretly hoping it would take at least a little of the edge off. “Keep asking and I will. I am weak.”

He sighed, rustling through the line. “I just want to be near you.” 

“We won’t last five minutes.”

She saw him in her mind’s eye, sprawled out in bed, staring up blankly at the ceiling. Or at his desk, discarded homework left to panic over at the very last minute. Or maybe in front of the tiny TV, watching but not really seeing. “You know I won’t sleep tonight.” 

“Makes two of us.” 

“So… a movie night?”

“Peter,” she whined, and his heartbeat picked up. “We’ll do something we’ll regret.”

“I could never regret doing anything with you.”

“Sorry, could you repeat that? I don’t think you've kissed my ass enough.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

“Peter!” she said again, in more of a shocked, warning tone. 

He laughed, warm and light, so paradoxical to the cold abdominal aches settling deep and traveling south. 

“I think…” he started softly. “I think we need to talk about things.”

“We can’t do that now,” she whispered, voice cracking. Peter furrowed his brow before realization struck and he gripped the phone tighter, uttering her name stiffly. “I’m sorry—I’ll… I’ll call you tomorrow, okay, Pete?”

“Wait, I—”

But she’d hung up and Peter could almost see her, writhing in bed, resisting the urge. He bit at his thumb, wondering just how, after so many years, they’d come crashing down in a heap of panting, lust-driven barbarians. He lied there for a bit, trying to breathe slowly despite the weight in his chest and pulsing in his groin. He could take care of himself right now. It wouldn’t do much, but he could. But then he’d be even more riled up, craving her touch, and back to square one.  

Finally he got up, out of bed and decided, if she didn’t want him that way, fine. But he needed to hear it in words. 

  

It was maybe one in the morning when there was a knock at her window and she all but screamed, startling beneath the thin sheet. She was drenched in sweat but sleeping without a cover made her feel exposed. Not that she was doing much of sleeping as of now. She’d dozed off for a few minutes around midnight and figured that was about all the shut-eye she’d be getting.  

Spider-Man, in his full glory, hung upside down behind the glass, waving an enthusiastic hand. She cursed, forcing herself to throw on a nightshirt and open the window.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed at him, gritting her teeth.

He put on his best deep voice, clearing his throat. “Hello, Miss Y/N. A handsome young man, Peter, I think his name was, mentioned you could use a little help. And, in case you’re unfamiliar with me, I’m Spider-Man, your friendly, neighbourhood superhero. At your service, M’lady.”

That gag almost got the window slammed in his face. 

“Aw, come on, Y/N! I don’t think you’ve ever actually formally met him.”

“Yeah, well, I spend almost every waking moment with his idiot alter-ego so consider us officially acquainted.” 

Peter went quiet behind the mask and she knew he was smelling her. Hell, she could smell him too, even from inside the suit. The pheromones of an alpha in rut… strong stuff that was. She could only imagine what it was like for him. “Well, maybe he’d like to be more than acquaintances.” 

She rubbed a hand over her face. “If I let you in…” 

“I know.” 

“Fine. Just know this one’s on you.”

He climbed through, letting the web fall. A hug from Spider-Man was about the last thing she expected on a weekday at one A.M., but there he was, arms wrapped around her and lifting her off the ground slightly. She hid her smile in his shoulder and let herself relax. “I think I’m in love with you,” he breathed. 

She tensed in his arms and any pretence of tranquility burned to ash. “What do you m…?”

“You heard me.” 

“Yeah and I disagree.”

He drew back, and removed the mask to meet her eyes. “You what?” 

“I don’t think you’re… that. There’s love—I know I love you—but… _”_

“You don’t feel the same.” 

“I didn't say that. I… just—what we have is good. I like being your friend.” 

“That’s why it took me so long. But you’re it for me, Y/N.” He was shaking his head at her, a rueful smile on his lips. 

“You can’t just drop a bomb on me like that.” 

“We had things to talk about. That _is_  things.”

She sighed, looking passed him at the framed picture of the two of them on her desk. It was from the first grade and they both wore tacky, green art smocks, flashy paint covering their faces and the hands they held up for the camera. She smiled, meeting his eyes, the same boy, except with straighter teeth and shorter hair and a taller build. And he was laying it all out for her. “You know for sure? At eighteen?”

“I was sure at ten, I just didn’t know what it was.” 

She leaned her forehead on his chest, gripping at the suit. “I fell off the swings in grade three and you pulled an Iron-Man band-aid out of your pocket and put it over my knee. And then you came with me to the nurse’s office and told me it would be okay because we were still friends so it had to be okay.” 

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for his reaction, and if only she could have seen it. The biggest award-winning, face-splitting grin, one where he beamed, tilting his head back, as if to thank the heavens, and then down again to rest his chin on her head. “And then I gave you my pudding cup.” 

She smiled. “It could never be anyone else.”

And then he brought his hands to her cheeks, tipping her face to meet his and giving her the most charming, earnest kiss. She nearly swooned, warmth spreading from her centre all the way out to her limbs. It was so unlike the still stirring heat in her abdomen. It was soft and heartfelt and had every inch of Peter written in its touch. 

But it was short lived because pheromones were filling the room and their contact was shooting electric currents through the air and he couldn’t help it—he swiped his tongue along her lip. She kissed back with renewed fever because this time she knew, she knew it for sure. He made quick work of her pyjamas and she struggled with his suit until he finally did her a solid and hit the centre of his chest, ridding himself of the garment faster than she ever could. He stepped out of it and together they found themselves in her bed _again_. Her parents were still at their dinner party and likely still would be for a few hours so she gripped his shoulders and offered herself completely to him.  

“I love you,” he said, and the more he repeated it, the more it rang true.  

He wished they could take their time—this wasn’t how he pictured their first—but they needed release so badly it hurt. Peter shook with want as he peeled her underwear away from her body, breathing a ‘you’re beautiful’ as his gaze clouded. Slowly, as if trying to clear the fog, he asked about contraception. She nodded toward the bottle still on the nightstand and smiled. “Whenever you’re ready, Pete.”

He crashed his lips to hers and met her hips in a longing sort of warmth. She took him without much struggle, pulsing and dripping and more than ready, and damn if he wasn’t out-of-his-mind turned on. Her head fell back and her jaw dropped open, the sound of heavy breathing filling the air. He moved, feeling genuine surprise at how good it was. There wasn’t a sensation he could quite compare to this, not like the exhilaration of flying or the thrill of taking down bad guys or the buzz of an A on a calculus test. It was different and amazing and it mottled his mind until thinking became too much effort and all he wanted was to feel. 

“This is—insane,” she wheezed. “Incredible, ridiculous, wonderful...”

"Awesome," he added and moved a hand to toy with the bundle of nerves between them, earning him moans on exhales. And then he was pretty sure she came and he made all _sorts_ of sounds at the sight, lip curling and eyes fluttering—God, she was perfect. He drove further, grinding faster and chasing that cold fire.  

“Please do that again,” he whispered. “I need to see it again.”

“Fuck,” she laughed, wiping sheen from his forehead and running her fingers through his curls as he stared through a lustful daze. His thumb circled the nub, tracing patterns she couldn’t pinpoint. Her lips and tongue found his, drowning out every tiny noise they made, desperation fuelling their actions. She felt limp in his arms, letting him move and touch and grip her the way he wanted, trusting him with every bit of her and letting him use her to his heart’s content. She palmed over his back, feeling the muscles work and admiring his frame over hers, relishing in the whimpers and grunts, waiting to see him shatter. He eased her into a second high and when she focused on him again, he looked mesmerized.  

“You have the prettiest orgasm face, I swear.”

Her walls clenched and he spiralled, choking on vanilla and jasmine and euphoria and the thought of knotting his best friend. His teeth found her neck as he reached his peak, scraping her, drooling but not biting. He waited, wanting desperately to sink his teeth in. “I’m yours, Peter. I’ve always been yours.” And that was enough for him. He nearly drew blood but she hummed and twisted, giving him more access and crying out, still riding the remaining waves.  

He stilled in her finally, swelling, and locking them together. They flipped so she could rest on him, waiting out the knot. She rose to decorate his chest with kisses, murmuring sweet things to him as their heartbeats slowed. He folded his arms over her waist and dragged lazily, enjoying the novel sense of ease. It’d been long hours of being overstrung and overstimulated.

He traced the bite, feeling warmth at the thought of its implication. "Was that okay?"

"More than okay, it was perfect."

"That's not what I mean."

She turned to look at him, insistant. "I love you, Pete."

He shivered, the words still foreign. Then he grinned, bright and easy. "Man, I love you."

She'd meant it; she was his. 

All at once, this giddy feeling bloomed in his middle. "Thanks for sticking with me so long."

She bumped his nose with hers. "Thanks for being my best friend."

He met her lips and this time it held every late night and early morning, every car ride and pep talk and duet, every school day and weekend, every word they'd ever spoken, and every moment they'd forgotten. It held their friendship in its entirety and, more than that, it held the promise of always.

***

**Author's Note:**

> If you read all of this, thank you


End file.
